


A Piss and A Listen

by greatbriton



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 02:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3471551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatbriton/pseuds/greatbriton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall overhears Dorian & The Iron Bull making love in camp</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Piss and A Listen

Blackwall stares up at the stars in the clear dark sky. Dick in hand, pissing in the bushes, he lets out a relieved sigh. His breath lifting toward the stars in a cold white puff. 

Its a quiet night. Quieter than most they’ve seen in recent memory. He wasn’t much used to that anymore. Didn’t know what to do with himself when there wasn’t something to swing his sword at. Never knows what to do with his hands. Still, it’s nice to have a break every now and then. 

He shakes then stuffs his prick back into his pants. He turns from the spot to head back toward camp, tying his clothing back up for decency’s sake, and follows the small natural trail in the brush. It’s is hard to spot but the moon is giving off enough light to guide him. 

Blackwall is on the outskirts of the camp, the first tent lit from inside just a couple yards away when a branch snags his coat. Cursing softly, he works at untangling himself, at first not noticing the soft laughter. Then, when he’s free, the laughter comes again. He turns, his head and ear angling toward the deep sound. Coming from inside the tent, clearly the Iron Bull. His voice and distinct laugh unmistakable. There’s another voice in there with the Bull, far too quiet to make out.

He remembers with sudden surprise that the Bull’s cohabitant for the evening is Dorian. Blackwall finds the good humor in the Bull’s laugh even more interesting. He thought the mage and the Qunari didn’t get on. They were always bickering, threatening picking up on their people’s long standing war. He always pictured them stubbornly not speaking and turned away from each other in their separate blankets. Momentary camaraderie perhaps, he thinks. That is until Blackwall hears the Bull’s laugh again followed by a gentle moan pitched even lower. 

Generally, Blackwall is not the prying type of man. He’d move along because it was none of his concern. So, it’s a strange compulsion that has him moving closer to the tent instead of past it to his own. He’s also usually not the most silent of men but he watches his step and avoids more than a shuffling across dirt as he finds himself standing on the far dark side of the Iron Bull and Dorian’s tent. 

This close he can hear clearer, it not see, although there is a lantern lit inside the fabric is thick enough to mask any shadows it might cast. 

He can hear the shifting inside the tent. Quiet softly wet sounds that remind him all too much of kissing. Blackwall sucks in a breath, more surprise than anything but he doesn’t let the breath out right away. 

The Bull moans, a sound that draws Blackwall to lean closer, then there’s a quick scuffle and his noises are muted. 

"You’ll wake the entire camp if you keep that up," Dorian says, his voice sharp like a reprimand but there’s no bite to it. Blackwall makes out what he thinks is an out of breath quality to Dorian’s words. 

"That feels so good," Bull says behind whatever is muffling him. Perhaps a cloth. Maybe a hand. The image comes un-beckoned to Blackwall’s mind, a stirring of something bordering on lecherous. Dorian and Bull pressed together in a fashion that suggests an intimacy that Blackwall could only remember feeling in another life. Dorian’s small fragile hand pressed roughly against the Bull’s large mouth. His compliance with the smaller man’s touch is something that heats Blackwall’s cheeks. Blackwall crouches down as close to the tent as he feels he can without risking discovery. 

Dorian laughs this time. A gentle kind of laugh that Blackwall has never heard from him before. It’s disarming and alluring. 

"As gorgeous as it is that you’re enjoying yourself," Dorian says with more shifting. "I do not think you want us to be interrupted." Each word is slow to come out, some words quieter than others and some clearly emphasized with a kiss. Then a short silence before the Bull lets out a heavy breath. Wet noises follow. Wet achingly vivid noises. 

"You’re right. You’re right," the Bull hisses, just louder than a whisper for him. Still clear to hear from the distance Blackwall is at. "Don’t stop."

Dorian’s answering moan is almost too quiet but Blackwall makes it out. The heavy arousal it sends to Blackwall’s groin shocks him. It’s almost enough to make him back away. This is turning into something more than a curiosity. Something out of character and out of his control. He thinks maybe his response is more to do with needs he’s long been neglecting and not the two men he is so selfishly eavesdropping on. 

Blackwall’s distraction over, he turns his attention back to the noises from inside the tent. Dorian’s just finished speaking. He didn’t make it out which is oddly disappointing to Blackwall. 

Then something from inside scratches along the tent’s interior, spooking Blackwall into holding his breath and tightening all his muscles. 

"But what if I want to look at you?" Bull asks Dorian. Blackwall lets his breath out. 

"You’ve seen it before, use you’re imagination," Dorian responds. "Turn it out."

"Fine," Bull is less than pleased but there’s a small clang of metal and the light inside the tent goes out. Blackwall blinks at the suddenness, frowning at the gray tent and consuming darkness. 

Dorian whispers his thanks and does something that has the Bull gasping. Also laughing. Contained noises that sound almost strained. A pleasure that fills the pit of Blackwall’s gut. 

The kissing is hard to hear over the sound of Blackwall’s own breathing inside his head. He strains his ears, suddenly desperate to hear every little sound. Every moment shared between the two men. 

The Bull is making encouraging sounds, any words almost indistinguishable from his other noises. Blackwall can just make out gentle curses and something scraping quickly across the ground. All of these things painting images in Blackwall’s head that he has no business imagining. 

"Venhedis, Bull," Dorian’s voice is broken in a heated exerting way. Blackwall licks his dry lips and ignores the twitch in his pants. 

There’s a clear flat slapping sound that Blackwall can only believe is flesh on flesh. He silently echoes the gasps from the tent, putting a hand to his mouth and closing his eyes. 

Dorian above the Bull’s bulky body is the image his mind conjures. Unsure if it’s the truth of the scene or not. The mage pressing and pushing into the Bull in such a manner that elicits these pleasured noises. It is surreal and overwhelming. Blackwall can’t stop from palming himself to alleviate some of the pressure. He sighs softly then puts his hand to his brow, finally wondering what he was doing. 

The noises from Dorian and Bull are un-mistakeable. With each soft hit of skin to skin came searching pants or grunts. On occasion a whispering voice that Blackwall knew was Dorian but he couldn’t make out the words, most seeming to be his native tongue. 

It sends Blackwall spiraling, conflicting desires hitting him all at once, and he dizzyingly reaches for the ground as he leans back. 

He’s scrambling back and getting to his feet with the sounds of the Bull’s building groans and pleased curses ringing in his ears. Without much care if he’s heard, Blackwall sets one foot in front of the other until his legs are carrying him away. He doesn’t look back to make sure neither of the men stick their heads out of their tent, having overheard him or not. It’s all he can do to concentrate on getting to his own tent which he shares with the Inquisitor. 

She’s snoring something like a saw to a tree when he pulls the tent flap open. He shoves his boots off quickly before blindly finding his way to his bedroll and breathing into his hand to keep himself quiet. 

His hard on nags tight in his pants and Blackwall tries his best to ignore it. Damn thing. Damn mages. Damn Qunari. It’s the thoughts of Dorian and Bull moving against each other, touching… loving it, and the sounds of them at the height of their arousal that makes the task difficult. 

Blackwall looks over his shoulder, the sleeping form of the Inquisitor still sleeping undisturbed. He turns back around and stiffly undoes enough of his clothing to take himself in hand. 

It’s not as soft as what Dorian and Bull had. It’s not as whispery sweet. That was something he didn’t deserve. Especially not after this. Blackwall closes his eyes and imagines them, the supposed enemies embracing each other, and he pulls at himself roughly. Eager to get this through and out of his system. He puts two knuckles between his teeth to make himself breathe through his nose and keep quiet. 

With a harsh grunt that he could play off as dreaming, Blackwall spills over his hand off to the side of his blanket. Unromantic and not entirely satisfying. He squeezes to get the last of his seed and tries to catch his breath. He tries to think this through, wonders why this had effected him at all. He certainly hadn’t entertained the idea of these men before. Although Dorian with his pretty face and that sly smirk of his. The Bull an entirely impressive man…

Blackwall shakes his head and covers himself before turning to lay on his back. As he stares at the tent roof above the guilt and shame of what he has done hits him hard. He closes his eyes in an attempt to hide from it for a short time. It doesn’t work. 

Maker, he had just went out to take a piss.


End file.
